


Witnessed

by Yahtzee



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, POV Third Person Omniscient, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Pre-Femslash, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortan Joe liked all those eyes on him, so he got done faster. That was all you could ask for, him finishing faster and leaving. And what did it matter if they were seen naked on all fours for Joe? Being watched was nothing, compared to having to do it. </p><p>And so these women, who had been watched in the act of sex countless times, did not see such witnessing as a violation. They only knew that, once begun, no one was to interrupt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witnessed

"He doesn't act like any of the other men," the Dag said as they sat in the highest bower of their old Keep. On the floor long beneath, Furiosa lay on one of the couches in a long white tunic, her body a thin pale line far beneath them. Max sat next to her in T-shirt, pants and boots, reading to her from a book. With the great fans going, they couldn't make out the words at this distance. All they could hear was the low, soothing tone of his voice. Apparently he found it easier to speak words that weren't his own. "Max doesn't grab. Doesn't hit. Never seen a man act like that."

"I think that's how they used to act," Cheedo said. She sprawled wider than the others, her broad belly demanding its space. "Before. At least sometimes."

"Men could act that way now if they wanted to." Toast's lips pressed together in a forbidding line. "If Max can, they can."

"Do you think he wants to ride her?" Capable had no gentler word in her vocabulary for it than "ride." All the other words were much worse. "He's taking his time about it, if he does."

Cheedo nodded. "You think he'd try it while she's still weak."

"I bet he'd ask her first." But Dag's voice sounded doubtful. She knew that women made love to men of their own free will; deep inside her, something in her body recognized that impulse and longed to understand it. But her entire experience of sex was what she endured at the hands of Immortan Joe, and so she could hardly wrap her mind around the idea of wanting that. Choosing it. Saying yes when asked.

It did not occur to her that the woman might be the one to ask.

They huddled together, four sisters bound deeper than blood. Instead of the thin white garments Joe let them piece together from spare cloth, they now had proper dresses and pants and tunics. Cheedo's was too small for her—her belly strained at the cloth—but they could come up with something better given more time.

Because they did, at last, dare to expect better. The Citadel was still in flux, changing by the day and even the hour. Water was being distributed more sanely and fairly. The crowd outside had begun to assemble into a town. People had started to relax slightly as they realized they were safe from Immortan Joe and even from each other.

Best of all—even though she was still recovering—Furiosa was unquestionably in charge. If Furiosa led them, surely they would again prevail. Furiosa had defeated the desert. She had killed the man who called himself immortal. Surely she could do anything.

But none of them knew what to make of Furiosa spending time with a man, willingly, and unafraid. Even less did they know what to make of Max.

"He hasn't done all this just because he wants to ride her," Toast finally said. "I think he _does_ want to, but—still, that's not why."

They all understood this was true, though none of them fully comprehended how a man would give much but demand nothing in return.

"Come on," Cheedo said as she pushed herself awkwardly onto her knees, then stood with her hands at the small of her back. "They've been reading long enough. Let's see if they'll come to dinner."

The Wives had taken to eating in the giant mess halls. Nobody yet spoke to them much; they were both feared as Joe's property and revered as his killers. The men didn't dare look at them. The women were amiable but uncertain. But it was good to finally be around other people. As close as the four of them were, they were starved for new voices, new words. They broke out of Immortan Joe's keeping not only to escape him but also to claim their world.

Their Keep was both prison and palace. The cells were their chambers, their beds. The throne was this high-vaulted space, with a few windows that let through thin rays of sunlight, and the soft circles of pallets and pillows down below. The winding, circular stone steps and platforms around the walls—those were used seldom. Either Joe stood on them to watch his Wives "at play," and they would have to pretend to be happy and carefree for him, or he'd let some of the warboys in. Rictus Erectus, too. Immortan Joe would have these males watch as he rode one of the women. The drugged, dying fools thought of it as a treat—a gift of sexual arousal—instead of realizing how he was lording this over them, his bullet fodder, who would go to Valhalla without ever touching a woman.

(Some poor warboys tried to touch each other. But if they were caught at it, Immortan Joe had them shredded.)

For the most part, the Wives preferred it when the other men witnessed. Immortan Joe liked all those eyes on him, so he got done faster. That was all you could ask for, him finishing faster and leaving. And what did it matter if they were seen naked on all fours for Joe? Being watched was nothing, compared to having to do it.

And so these women, who had been watched in the act of sex countless times, did not see such witnessing as a violation. They only knew that, once begun, no one was to interrupt.

By the time they had made a full circuit and were one level closer, they were near enough to hear Furiosa and Max speaking. Furiosa: "When will you go?"

"Soon."

The Wives stopped and looked at each other in dismay. Everyone wanted to Max to stay; it was impossible not to feel safer when he was near. He was like the deadliest bullet in Furiosa's gun.

Furiosa did not plead with him. She only sat up so that she and Max were face to face. "What is it you're looking for out there?"

"You know already."

"Redemption? I would've thought you found some of that on the road with us."

He nodded. "But not enough."

"Will anything ever be?"

Max answered with another question. "Is it enough for you?"

Furiosa considered that in silence. The Wives exchanged glances again, then sat down, huddling together behind the high rail. Eavesdropping was not rude in their world; it was the only way to learn anything.

"Not killing him," Furiosa said at last. "Not even retaking this place. But if we can build something here—make a way for people to live with their heads held high—yeah. Maybe."

"You can do that—build things up." Max's smile was hardly more than a shadow at the corner of his mouth. "Me, I tear 'em down."

"You're more than that."

Max shrugged with one shoulder.

The Wives all thought Furiosa would ask him to stay; it was what they wanted to do. _There's water here! And food, and beds, and safety. Out there you'll find only death and sand._

But Max knew that already, and still his shadowed eyes searched for a horizon he hadn't yet found.

When Furiosa spoke again, she said only, "You won't say goodbye, will you?"

He shifted, uncomfortable in his own skin, and yet he didn't break eye contact with Furiosa. 

"You always have a place—" Furiosa stopped herself; the platitude died unspoken.

The two of them remained still and quiet for the space of several long breaths. The Dag remembered how Max had cradled Furiosa's head as his blood flowed into her veins. Capable thought of that moment too, though she recalled the catch in his voice as he had finally told Furiosa his name. They had all believed it might be the last word she would ever hear. Cheedo thought that was their real goodbye; this was something else, something harder to describe.

Toast—always the Knowing—realized that some people could part forever but never really say goodbye. It was not that Furiosa and Max needed each other. They were both people who could stand alone no matter what. But the long chase on the Fury Road had torn at them until their ragged edges matched.

It was like her and the other Wives. They had different personalities, and were beginning to fashion different lives for themselves. But Toast and Capable and the Dag and Cheedo—and Splendid also, even though she was lost—they would always, always be a part of one another.

Furiosa and Max would, too.

Slowly Furiosa reached toward him; Max took her hand. Tall and powerful woman though she was, Furiosa's hand nearly disappeared within his enormous paw.

"This is it," Cheedo whispered. She did not worry about discovery; it had not even fully occurred to her that Max and Furiosa did not know the Wives were there. But Immortan Joe had punished interruptions with the barbed-wire whip. "He'll ride her now."

"Or ask to," the Dag said. She still thought he might at least ask.

But Max made no move. No words came from his mouth. Instead he squeezed her hand in both of his, gazing into Furiosa's eyes. By now there was no mistaking his desire, or hers either; the sense of yearning had filled the entire cavernous space as surely as light or heat.

Still Max waited. They did not understand.

Yet it seemed Furiosa did. She leaned toward him, eyes searching, perhaps to study him from a new angle. He simply let her look.

Furiosa raised her hand to his face. Max's hands slid down her arm as she did so, gently stroking her flesh. When her fingers reached his mouth, he parted his lips, and even at this distance they could see his tongue brush Furiosa's thumb.

The slow heat within the room kindled, the first spark lighting Furiosa's eyes. She rose from her cushion to stand over Max—her hand still at his lips—until she slid it down his neck. He tilted his head back as if the throat were not a vulnerable place. Like she couldn't kill him now with one flick of a blade. Instead he looked up at her, waiting, silent, until Furiosa bent her face to his and kissed him.

He came alive then, opening his mouth into her kiss like a man drinking water for the first time in days. His chest rose and fell, betraying the deepening of his breaths, as Furiosa cradled the back of his head in her palm. Max's hands flexed; the mere curve of his fingers showed how much he wanted to touch her, outlined the flesh he imagined against his skin.

And yet he waited. To the disbelief of the Wives, Max waited. Furiosa had all the power, and somehow he was glad of it.

When she pulled back, Max swayed after her with his open mouth, but did not rise. Furiosa tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, then eased backward onto the low cushions as she whispered, "Take these off."

Max kicked off his boots and rose to his feet. His gaze remained focused on Furiosa's face as he unbuttoned his trousers and let them drop.

 _So that's what a prick ought to look like_ , the Dag thought. She'd figured most of them had to be more appetizing than the misshapen thing between Immortan Joe's legs. _That's lots better. I wouldn't mind something like that, I don't think._

Max removed his shirt last. Ink stained the skin of his back, the ownership facts Immortan Joe tattooed onto every adult captive. The Wives alone were allowed the sanctity of their skin, and that had been only for the sake of Joe's amusement. They bore different scars, not so easily seen.

Furiosa's eyes darkened as she took in the sight of Max naked before her. He was already hard; his muscled frame could've been carved from rock. And yet he seemed vulnerable compared to Furiosa—still wearing the sleeveless tunic that fell past her knees, still sitting as he stood, still enjoying the mere sight of him there wanting her.

Max did not seem to mind.

"Come here," Furiosa whispered, and he sank onto his knees before her

Neither of them began the next kiss; it took them both together, in the same moment. Max's broad hands cradled Furiosa's face as her fingertips trailed down his back, traced the curve of his ass, came around to his belly, and dipped down. The Wives could not see what Furiosa did with her hand, but they understood it from the way Max groaned into her mouth.

Yet when she took her hand away, Max did not protest. Did not shove her head down. He simply kept kissing her—not only her lips but now also her cheeks, her forehead, her throat. As if he could never get enough. But he did not ask for more; he waited for what Furiosa gave.

Furiosa's hand found one of his, and brought it to her breast. Max squeezed, but gently, because Furiosa didn't cry out. She merely gasped. His fingers brushed at her nipple through the cloth for a moment before he pulled back enough to look Furiosa in the eyes. He looked deeply the entire time he untied the strings at the front of her tunic, even as the pale cotton fell away, exposing her breasts.

(The tattoo on Furiosa's back had faded slightly, and the words were stretched and strange. Most captured children didn't live long enough for their tattoos to be ruined.)

Only when Furiosa slid her hand around the back of his neck, guiding him, did Max lower his mouth to her breast. He sucked at her as if thirsty, and when she began to whimper, his hands circled her waist.

 _It feels good, then_ , the Dag thought. Immortan Joe had liked to look at their breasts, to slap or pinch them, but the breathing machine had kept him from ever using his mouth on them in any way. She'd always been glad she never had to kiss him. Certainly she could never have been moved to utter the sounds Furiosa was making now, soft and breathless, as Max nuzzled the skin between her breasts before kissing them again.

When his hands slid all the way down her waist to the swell of her hips, Furiosa stroked her fingers through his hair, kissed his forehead. Bending her head close to Max's, so that their cheeks touched, she murmured, "Help me get this off."

"She could do it herself if she wanted to," Cheedo whispered.

"Of course she could!" Capable elbowed Cheedo, but not too hard. "Shhh."

Max's brawny arm slid around Furiosa's back, steadying her as she lifted her hips. With his free hand he pulled her tunic down her legs so she was naked too. He only kissed Furiosa again, let her fall back upon the bed, and parted her thighs.

The Wives exchanged looks; this was the part where he'd ride her for sure, which meant the interesting stuff was over.

But Max instead kissed Furiosa's open lips again—her neck—her breast—the small swell of her belly—before kneeling again on the floor and sliding his shoulder beneath one of her thighs. And then he put his mouth on her, and Furiosa's cry was too sweet to be from pain.

It wasn't that the Wives didn't know men could do that to women. (Or, as Toast and Cheedo had each speculated, they could do it to each other—if they had no chastity belts in the way.) But none of them had imagined that a man might do so eagerly, hungrily, as though it gave him as much pleasure as the woman took.

And Furiosa did take her pleasure of him, her long fingers stroking through his short scruff of hair as he worked, her head tilted back as her mouth widened in a silent scream. They could not see Max's tongue or lips, only the way his head moved, the dark shadow of him against the pale expanse of Furiosa's thigh. It was enough to tell them everything.

Furiosa's breath caught. Her body tensed. Max's fingers tightened against her leg and her belly. She arched her back, pushing against his mouth, and he responded, moving faster.

At last Furiosa sighed as though with her last breath, shuddered, and went limp. Although Max did not immediately lift his head, he gradually stilled. When he pulled back, he kissed Furiosa's thighs and belly and her cunt before he crawled onto the cushions at her side. It was he first moment in all of this when he had been beside her rather than beneath her. Furiosa rolled into his embrace, and they began kissing again—slowly, now. Luxuriously. As if he were as satisfied as she.

"Can't he do it?" Cheedo said. "He would've by now, if he could."

"Looks like he could to me," whispered Capable. Max's erection remained stiff and thick, dark against the muscled expanse of his belly—at least, in the last moment before Furiosa rolled atop him for still more kisses.

For a while it seemed as if Cheedo must be right, because Max and Furiosa continued their embraces. He would caress her breasts and kiss her mouth; once he slipped his hand back between his legs, perhaps to feel the wetness he'd earned there. Furiosa gripped his cock once, gave him a long powerful stroke that made him groan. But he never pushed her down.

Instead it was Furiosa who put her hand on his chest, urging him to lie on his back. Max stretched out with his arms open, and when Furiosa slung one leg over his body to straddle him, he caught her at her waist to steady her. His cock twitched, as if it could find its own way inside. Furiosa took him in her hand, stroked him one more time, and then lowered herself onto him. He breathed out sharply, and then his head lolled back as he shut his eyes in satisfaction.

The Wives watched in dawning comprehension as Furiosa began to move. Max was letting her be the one who chose. And that was how he wanted it. He _loved_ it.

Maybe he knew Furiosa hadn't been able to choose, Toast thought. Max should've guessed as much. Few women endured Immortan Joe's Citadel without being forced. Furiosa needed to be the one who said _if_ , and _when_ , and _how fast_ and _how much._ Max must have understood it all, and so he gave Furiosa what she needed.

The Dag smiled against the balled fist she held to her mouth. _This_ was what it looked like when a woman wanted to be ridden—or, as it seemed, when she got to be the one who rode. It could be like that, not violent or ugly. Just soft and slow.

After a few moments, Cheedo became aware that she did not envy Furiosa. She envied Max. Her eyes stole over to Toast as she found herself remembering Max's face between Furiosa's legs. She pressed her tongue against her lips, wondering whether she could do it just like he had.

Capable tried to imagine Nux beneath her the way Max lay beneath Furiosa. It would have been so different from Immortan Joe; that alone would make it good. Yet they had never even kissed, not really. Nux had passed into and out of her life within three days' time. Already he seemed like a mirage that had shimmered too briefly on the horizon before being erased by the sand.

And she realized in that moment something even Max and Furiosa themselves did not know: They were doing this in part to prove it had all been real. Years later, when they remembered each other, they would recall more than the desperate struggle in the desert. They would know the sound of each other's groans, the taste of their skin. That, too, they could carry with them always.

Max grunted then, and for the first time he moved without Furiosa guiding him, his hips thrusting upward desperately. But Furiosa liked it, speeding up even as he did. Her breasts bounced, and Max palmed them before bringing his hands back to her waist. His thrusts suddenly deepened—lengthened—and he shut his eyes tightly as he went completely still.

There, now. They were done. All of the Wives straightened slightly, exchanging glances. How long should they wait before walking the rest of the way down?

 _Give it a second_ , the Dag thought. Max seemed like the kind of fellow who'd want his pants on before a chat.

But then Max and Furiosa _weren't_ done, because they kept kissing, kept touching. As she braced her arm against his shoulder, he slid his hand between her legs. Even as his cock slipped out of her, his fingers began working. Furiosa tilted her body toward Max's touch as she let her head fall back. Within only seconds she cried out—louder than before. Maybe better. They saw only a flash of her exhilarated smile before she slumped into Max's embrace.

"How long are they going to keep at it, then?" Cheedo's eyes were wide.

"They're slowing down," Capable said. The rhythm of the kisses between Furiosa and Max became more relaxed, almost lazy. She had rolled to his side, and he trailed his fingers along her back, pausing only briefly at the scars that matched his own. "Gonna sleep soon."

The Dag nodded toward a door on the higher level. In Immortan Joe's day, it had always been barred, but there were fewer locks now. "C'mon. Let's go."

They crept out, one after the other. The last to leave was Toast, who glanced over her shoulder at Max and Furiosa one more time. Max was pulling the blanket over them; Furiosa's eyes were shut, and a small smile played on her lips. Imagine how much you had to trust someone to sleep by his side. Certainly Immortan Joe had never been fool enough to fall asleep in their presence. If only he had.

The quietness of their departure was a matter of courtesy, not secrecy. No one spoke until they were a few steps from the door, when the Dag said, "It was good to see it done proper, wasn't it?"

Capable nodded, though her heart was heavy with the new understanding of how much she and Nux had never shared.

Cheedo still couldn't fully wrap her head around it. "If he wanted to ride her all along, how is it he never asked? He could've made her do it out on the desert. Or he could've tried." If the Wives hadn't been able to stop him, Cheedo felt pretty sure the Vuvalini could've managed.

"He let her choose," Toast replied. "Max loves her, just like we love her. Because she's the brightest flame."

"Furiosa is hope," the Dag said. She let one hand rest on her belly and imagined a girl inside, a girl who would grow up strong and unafraid.

 _So Max has hope after all_ , Capable thought. _He'll never admit it. Not even to himself._

But she knew he had to understand, somewhere deep down, as he drifted to sleep with Furiosa in his arms.

 

 

THE END


End file.
